


If I'm Your Villain

by wildestranger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-03
Updated: 2011-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-14 09:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildestranger/pseuds/wildestranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Harry follows Draco around London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Ah, so that’s why we’re here.”

Hermione’s voice was fond, but there was exasperation as well, familiar now from many long nights spent with Harry in trendy bars. Harry didn’t resent it; he knew she voiced her disapproval gently, had come to expect it even. He figured he deserved it since he was being unreasonable and refused to explain.

Draco was sitting across the restaurant, sharing a table and a meal with Blaise Zabini. Their faces were barely illuminated, the candles on the table dark, almost the same bloody red as their wine. No fat church candles for Slytherins, no bright lights to expose them. Harry wondered briefly if there was a company policy to allocate tables according to Houses, when Hermione spoke again.

“They’ve noticed us.”

Zabini was looking at their table, nodding to Hermione and smirking into his wine. There was the smugness he often wore when he saw Harry, the hint of a triumph. Harry took another sip of his drink and turned to stare at his own table.

“Are you going to go talk to him?”

“No. No point, is there.”

“Why are we here, then?”

With some reluctance, Harry looked up. She was concerned for him, but there was also wariness beside the concern and slight frustration.

“I realise that you…like him, Harry, but he has told you, many times, that he’s not interested. Don’t you think it would be better if you moved on? Found somebody else? You can’t keep following him around London, you know. Or soon Blaise will start thinking that I’m after him, and I’d never hear the end of it.”

Harry knew he was supposed to smile at that. But he was too tired, and even the idea of Hermione wrapping Blaise Zabini around her finger couldn’t make him want to respond with anything more than a tired tilt of the mouth.

“You’re still obsessed with him.”

“No, I’m not obsessed with him. It’s nothing like that. Nothing like then.”

Hermione smiled at that, a natural smile. It seemed so easy when she did it.

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re not convinced he’s plotting dastardly deeds under our noses, but if you’re not obsessed with him, what is it? Why him? I’m trying to understand, Harry, I honestly am but…”

There was the smallest movement of air behind him, but Harry had heard the scraping of chairs against hard stony floors and the haughty gratitude of the waiter. Then a scent, sandalwood and expensive wool, and all his blood was suddenly humming in his ears. A pale hand on the curve of his chair, and a familiar voice by his ear.

“Stalking is such an unattractive trait, Potter. I’d hate to have to file charges.”

And it was easy to turn his head, give an amused smile, and speak in a steady voice.

“Having a meal in the same restaurant as you hardly constitutes stalking, Malfoy. We merely happened to choose this place for a quick bite. I had no idea you’d be here.”

“Really, Potter. How…astonishing.”

Hermione’s smile suggested a woman about to go into battle and already positioning her spear for the throw.

“Actually, Malfoy, this place was my idea. I hope you aren’t implying that I’m stalking you.”

Draco twitched his lips.

“Hermione darling, if you ever felt an inclination to do so you’d be most welcome to.”

Draco licked his teeth, but he wasn’t looking at Hermione.

“Indeed.”

There were times when Harry felt envious of people’s ability to communicate flirts and insults with the curve of their lips. Hermione’s mouth was a straight line, but there was a hint of satisfaction for having made a point, a successful move.

“Well, this has been lovely, but I’m afraid we must be off. Most delightful to see you again, Hermione. And Potter. I’m sure you’ll find somebody else to stalk soon.”

Harry tilted his head up, and grinned.

“It’s not as much fun to stalk anybody else, Malfoy.”

“Oh?”

Harry lowered his lids, smirked a little, looked up again.

“Nobody else seems to enjoy it quite as much.”

Zabini laughed and winked at Harry as Draco dragged him away.

: :

Harry didn’t wake up with a hangover. He had learned to stop two drinks before that stage and was used to suffering only from general listlessness the next day. If there was a headache, it had had nothing to do with the wine; the dull feeling of having over eaten or over slept was there every morning regardless of what he’d done the night before.

It was a cold morning, with the kind of frosty wind that makes one smug with happiness to be inside. Harry had his tea and toast in the living room, spreading out _The Guardian_ along with _The Daily Prophet_ in stacks on top of the cushions. He had experimented with croissants and butter for breakfast last week, but had forgotten to buy more. Still, the raspberry jam was nice. And it went better with the tea.

Sometimes he’d avoid the restlessness till late afternoon, and those were the good days, with late breakfast turning into late lunch, distractions in the form of black and white films on BBC 2 or articles talking about European integration or the history of travel writing or something else Harry decided he should know more about. Harry was interested in things, and it was something to do, something worth doing. Until his pyjamas got itchy and he decided that instead of reading, he should do something else, get out for the day. Or what was left of it.

It was better than it had been during the war, hours of paralysing waiting followed by a few moments of mindless movement. Harry had learned to spend time, allocate each hour a pleasurable activity, not give in to the dread of inaction. And it was better than the Auror training had been, every minute accounted for by pointless exercises that were made all the more frustrating by their futility. This was better, Harry knew. He could choose how to spend his time. And if there times when he got bored, had nothing to do, it was still better than wasting his life doing something he didn’t want to do.

And going out, well, that was something to do.

And it wasn’t that he needed the drink. Harry could have ordered bottles by the dozen to be delivered at his house and drank them in solitary contentment too. Yet the idea of getting dressed, the thought of feeling his smooth shirt and the heaviness of his coat became irresistible sometime during the day. And bright lights, the delicious colours of liquid and the smell of cigars, became something he wanted, and with nothing else to want, he went out.

: :

 

This time it was a different bar, and Harry was alone. There was something almost unintentional in this, the way he allowed his feet to lead him and they inevitably brought him to Draco. Later, he would justify it by thinking up ways his subconscious would have heard something, been aware of Draco’s plans. But mostly he was surprised, even more so than Draco. He didn’t mind it, though.

This bar was stylish, more conservative than Draco’s usual preferences. Harry ordered a large glass of wine, paid the tenner with a wince, and sat down. He was careful not to look at Draco. That seemed to produce the most satisfying results.

The punters were mostly middle-class men, grey suits and straight side-partings, and nothing like the aspirational young professionals Draco liked to surround himself with. Yet looking at them and being aware of how well his coat fitted his shoulders, how tight his white shirt was, how his collar was just open enough to show his pulse, reminded Harry that he was here for a different purpose. Something more conspicuous, scandalising even, compared to the other people sipping their drinks and discussing their business. Harry took a long sip of his drink, and felt the peculiar combination of alertness and relaxation start to unravel in his belly.

“Now, Potter, what is it this time?”

Harry considered saying _what_ , but that would be almost untrue and also pointless. Not the way to engage Draco in conversation and flirting and banter and all those other things Harry spent his days reading about.

“Oh you know, the usual. Any chance of getting into your pants tonight?”

Draco was already smiling in expectation and there was no change when Harry spoke.

“Not tonight, Potter.”

“Oh well, then.”

Yet Draco didn’t move away. Usually he nodded, smirked a little at how prepared Harry was to offer himself yet again, and then left to suck Zabini’s neck or some such thing. Rita Skeeter’s column often featured photographs of Draco, panting in a dark corner of some wizarding establishment with any number of his attractive friends, along with a salacious commentary. Harry found that he couldn’t blame her unsubtle interest in Draco’s activities, particularly as he spent many exhausted mornings reading about what Draco had been up to after bumping into him.

“They say you’ve been invited to a meeting next week. With the head of Auror’s bureau.”

Harry became still, then swirled the wine in his glass. He had learned to do that without spilling, but it wasn’t yet an automatic movement. He watched as the wine rose higher, threatening to spill over his trousers and Draco’s white shirt, heard the hitched breath over his shoulder.

“That’s entirely possible. I have lots of mail that I don’t read.”

“All that fanmail? Must be so tiring, Potter. All those thank you notes to write.”

This again was off, Draco’s usual indifference turned into a petulance Harry hadn’t heard since they were in school. Harry turned his head and found Draco’s eyes still on the wine glass.

“I don’t write thank you notes.”

“Of course not, that would be beneath you.”

They were both staring at the wine now.

“I think they want you to come back.”

Harry felt the smile on his face, the bitterness flooding easily into his features and felt the warmth of the wine in his belly. This was a position he knew how to occupy.

“I’ve told them no before.”

“Well, you know, Potter, some people just don’t take no for an answer.”

There was the smirk, but also something else, some residue of uneasiness from his comment about Harry’s meeting. Harry lifted the wine to his mouth and drank, telling himself to worry about that later when he was alone.

“Some questions are worth asking more than once.”

Draco’s breath was hot against his neck and Harry wasn’t sure if it was the wine he could taste in his mouth. Then there was the clap on the back, staying slightly longer then necessary and announcing to Harry that they were back to regular teasing. Harry licked the wine off his lips and smiled, finally looking at Draco.

“See you around, Potter.”

“See you around.”

But there was no wink this time, no amusement at Harry’s expense in Draco’s parting look. And the familiar twitch of excitement was gone, the dread in his belly no longer overcome by the warmth of the wine or Draco’s proximity. Harry downed his drink and walked home.

: :

There had been a pattern for the past two years, a routine of casually formed questions and condescending smirking that Harry had learned to enjoy. They saw each other frequently in various functions, house parties, random bars and clubs. Draco would say something flippant and vaguely insulting, Harry would ask if there was any chance of getting into his pants, and Draco would politely (always polite, always delicate) refuse. They would have a brief discussion of current affairs, ministry gossip, rumours of old friends and the state of Harry’s apparently atrocious wardrobe. Then Draco would leave to get a blowjob from yet another friend, which would be reported in the next day’s paper, and Harry would go home for a solitary wank. This is how their relationship worked.

It didn’t hurt, that his interest (lust, longing, love?) was unrequited. At first, when Harry was still dazed from the idea of fancying a bloke and dazed from the snippets of pale skin he kept ogling whenever Draco stretched in public, there had been some resentment over the unfairness of it all mixed with the desire. He had been scared to death about being caught watching Draco too long, or getting tongue tied at the wrong time, or being exposed and humiliated by the papers if they found out.

He had taught himself to live with it, though. He had gone to clubs, experimented, learned what to do to a man’s cock and mouth and arse. He wanted to know, never mind if he never got a chance to touch Draco, never mind if he was never fancied back. Not knowing how to do such things would only make it more embarrassing. And learning, experimenting with the many anonymous blokes interested in shagging him, made the whole idea of fancying men a lot less disturbing.

He also started paying attention to what went on with his extended circle of friends, observed how people were building lives and relationships after the war, creating networks beyond House affiliations. Ginny was living with Luna Lovegood and Dean was going out with Susan Bones. Neville was married to a Slytherin. Too many people from all the Houses were dead for there to be things like strictly Gryffindor families anymore; the wizarding world was changing, and the rigid traditions from before the war were either being ignored, or defied in scandalous Muggle fashion. Even Molly Weasley was slowly coming to accept that her daughter would never bring a man home. They hadn’t yet dared tell her about the twins, though.

But Draco remained scandalous and tempting, keeping what was left of his Slytherin friends close as well as insinuating himself into various other groupings. Harry had wondered, at first, if that wasn’t the reason, the challenge of it. If fancying a male Slytherin went hand in hand with dropping out of the Auror programme and making rude comments about the Ministry. He suspected it was what Draco thought, what Harry’s friends thought. It wasn’t completely untrue.

Yet the temptation wasn’t about causing a scandal, or trying to avoid the Boy Who Lived. Draco was fascinating to him because he had gone against everyone’s expectations, had created a life for himself despite suspicion and contempt, and made it good. At some point, when Harry was getting disappointed with the training and drinking himself into stupidity, he had started watching Draco and become enthralled by his ability to forge his own life.

He hadn’t been very graceful about his own inability to do the same.

He still squirmed every time he remembered that there had probably been drool on his chin that first time.

“I know I’m very fit, Potter, but there’s no reason for you to stare at me with your mouth open like you want to eat me alive. I’m not feeling tasty today.”

Draco had smirked and Harry had considered panicking. Instead he had tried being suave.

“Malfoy, fancy going for a drink sometime?”

The grin was pure delight, but Harry was too nauseous with worry to be intoxicated by it.

“You asking me for a date, Potter?”

“If you like. For something that ends in us shagging like rabbits.”

A moment’s silence. Draco had gone very still.

“I was joking.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Ah.”

Another pause, before Draco coughed.

“Well, sorry, but I’m not interested.’

“Oh well. Too bad.”

Later Harry had decided that Draco had probably been too stunned to insult him properly. But it had turned into a teasing exchange, with half mocking and half outrageous flattery, a way of communicating his desperate longing without too much embarrassment. At the time, anyway, for once they had been overheard by a reporter, and _The Daily Prophet_ had printed a three-page article about confused young men and dark spells that might have confused them, and concluded by suggesting that Mr. Malfoy, in the interests of wizarding public, should investigate the matter in more detail. And give an interview to _The Prophet_ afterwards, of course, with pictures and diagrams. Harry had been amused as well as terrified (“See, even the papers think you should sleep with me!”), but Draco had not, had merely refrained from talking to him for a few weeks, so Harry hadn’t mentioned it again.

But there was a balance between them, a set of carefully marked boundaries between acceptable flirtation and personal space. And although things like asking after Harry’s plans, or asking questions about his meetings with the Aurors, didn’t precisely go against their agreement they did push against its limits. It was unsettling to be the object of such attention from Draco.

Not that it made Harry hope. But it made him wonder, and he knew wondering wasn’t good for him.

 

: :

The meeting was scheduled for 9.00, a transparent reminder of the virtues of regular life promised by Ministry employment. Harry had decided to be fifteen minutes late, but the waiting had become overly boring and so he had ended up arriving at 8.55 instead. The secretary whose job it was to greet him had given him a strange look, but directed him promptly to the appropriate room.

But it wasn’t the head of Aurors’ Bureau who was waiting for him, and Harry wondered whether Malfoy had been mistaken or whether they had changed plans at the last minute. Most likely they had given him false information deliberately, knowing that Harry wouldn’t show up for a meeting with the Minister for Magic.

Rufus Scrimgeour’s welcoming smile had become slightly more convincing during his second term in office, but there were still traces of the man who considered most his employees to be fools and treated them accordingly. As Harry agreed with this assessment of Ministry staff, he had stopped resenting it a long time ago.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter. Please have a seat.”

Scrimgeour gestured towards the chair that Harry was already descending into. Harry raised his eyebrow and gave a slight smile, sitting down without any hint of awkwardness.

Scrimgeour smiled back.

“Well, Harry, I imagine you know what this meeting is about. You don’t mind if I call you Harry, do you?”

Scrimgeour paused for a moment, just long enough for Harry to consider answering, before he continued.

“We are such old friends now, aren’t we? Anyway, I’ll come straight to the point: We want you to come back to the Aurors. There are Death Eaters still around, there is still a danger to the wizarding world. Your name still has a certain currency, and the truth of the matter is, Harry, that we need you. Our community needs you.”

Harry picked up the mug of coffee that had been placed before him and brought it to his lips. The grains of coffee were visible through the murky water. He put the mug down.

“I’m not interested in becoming an Auror.”

Scrimgeour noted the lack of honorific and continued with a slightly colder smile.

“I know, Harry, that you found the training a bit…difficult, but if you were to resume the course, I’m sure the trainers could be persuaded to be more lenient. You are, after all, a special case.”

Harry linked his hands beneath his chin and smiled. He was beginning to enjoy himself.

“I didn’t found the training difficult, _Rufus_ , I found it pointless and unreasonable. I quit because I refused to waste my time.”

“Of course, Harry, of course. But you must be aware that your dropping out sends a signal, which we can’t afford to have. We can’t have our young people thinking that being an Auror is pointless, that’s it’s uncool. And Harry Potter quitting the programme does send such a signal. You see my difficulty here, Harry.”

Scrimgeour made a face, which he probably thought was appealing. Harry fixed his gaze on the biscuit tray in the middle of the table and frowned.

“Have you considered reforming the programme?”

“Now, Harry, there are traditions involved here, and a lot of money spent on maintaining them. We can’t just change our way of life because Harry Potter says so. You are, after all, muggleborn. You didn’t grow up in this world and therefore you cannot be familiar with our traditions.”

Harry allowed his teeth to show in his grin. Scrimgeour added sugar to his coffee, no smile visible anymore.

“Indeed. And so I would think you would do fine without me.”

“Harry, I’ll be honest with you. We feel that our world, the wizarding world, would benefit from your presence at the Ministry. We are prepared to go to great lengths to secure your assistance.”

“I’ve already refused your offers many times.”

The next smile showed some enjoyment, and Harry started to feel the languidness in his body that always preceded a fight

“I realise, Harry, that you’ve had some…difficulties lately. Your relations with Draco Malfoy, for example. Very regrettable, and not very good for your reputation. He is not the kind of person we like to see our young heroes associating with, Harry.”

“I would have thought Malfoy’s reputation to be better than mine, Minister. He works for you, after all, and his bravery during the war was unquestionable.”

“Mr. Malfoy is an Unspeakable and his day to day activities are unknown to most people. That he spied for our side does not make his involvement with Death Eaters any more palatable. On the contrary. Nor does his well-publicised social life make him welcome in wizarding society. His is not a name you wish to be associated with, Mr. Potter.”

Harry lifted an eyebrow.

“I don’t see what this has to do with my joining the Aurors.”

“Then let me make it clear. So far you have been treated nicely by the press. Harry Potter is still well liked, and we wouldn’t want to think badly of him. However, that could change. If, for example, there were rumours that suggested you had dropped out of the Auror programme due to a nervous breakdown. Brought on by an over-indulgence in Muggle drugs, perhaps? And of course, that would explain your continued interest in Draco Malfoy, whose connections with that part of the Muggle world are well known.”

Rising to leave, Harry felt a cold smile on his face and the rush of adrenaline.

“Mr. Scrimgeour, I have no interest to support the wizarding world in its self-delusions. Blackmailing me will not change that.”

“The wizarding world has been very good to you, Mr. Potter. Don’t you think you should give something back to us? What do you think your friend Ron would have thought to see you like this?”

Harry stared at the other man and squashed down the urge to throw him across the room.

“No, Minister, I don’t think I should.”

: :

The hate was familiar now, the bubble of polished arguments rising to his lips after the meeting, the frustration of knowing that nothing he could say would change anything. Harry was better than he had been at dealing with it, had learned to keep calm and answer with reason. Even though reason was obviously not something they wanted.

The first time they had made the offer, with Kingsley Shacklebolt commiserating about the rigours of Auror training and offering tips to get past the supervisors, Harry had asked him to explain why they were taught to terminate werewolves on sight. Why were all Muggle witnesses Obliviated in a way that left them confused for days, why there was no better policy or no better magic to deal with them. Why they were taught to use spells against everybody who was not a wizard, taught to see them as both enemy and inferior. Harry had been told that he didn’t understand the wizarding world, and that such questions were not welcomed from muggleborns, even ones as famous as Harry Potter.

Kingsley had been nice but the condescension was still there. Harry had got used to over the past few years, watching people look over his scar and see the insane boy or the attention-hungry teenager or the Man Who Killed Voldemort But Was Still Kind of Strange. He had not, however, developed a tolerance for it.

There had been a minor scandal, Harry Potter dropping out from Auror training, but the Ministry had spinned the story with admirable skill. He had officially been given a leave of absence for health reasons, and none of his repeated insistence that he wasn’t coming back would convince them to change his status. Harry had stopped trying after two years.

He had never regretted it. But the frustration was still there, when the Ministry sent him another letter, when the papers spoke of him living in sinful sloth (Harry suspected that Rita was behind the phrase), and when he saw his friends doing things, getting new jobs, being active. There was still guilt over not doing anything else, but Harry was learning to not think about it.

: :

Remus came to visit two days later. Harry had prepared sandwiches and tea, delicate cucumber with soft white bread and loose leaf Earl Grey. Seamus and Dean used to make fun of him whenever he cooked, called him a house elf, or a girl. Yet he could remember liking it, using his hands to knead and to chop and to stir. But it had been a long time since he had last prepared food, and the sandwiches weren’t quite right, their shape somehow uneven, the taste wrong. Harry owled Remus and told him to come to one of the coffee shops down his street instead. He binned the sandwiches.

Remus looked grey, but he was smiling in a way that never failed to make Harry feel like a good student. He asked the usual questions about how Harry was doing and whether he’d thought of getting another job, and Harry gave the usual answers. Remus wasn’t as pushy about it as most people and Harry enjoyed that. But there were other questions he wanted to avoid as well.

“You look thin, Harry.”

“You’re hardly in any position to speak.’

Remus grinned and while Harry knew that he was one of the few people who could say that to Remus, he wouldn’t get away with avoiding the question this way.

“At the risk of sounding like Molly Weasley, have you been eating properly?”

Harry took a bite of his muffin and chewed through the dryness. Remus was watching him, sipping his tea, his eyes careful on Harry.

“Well enough. Been going out a lot lately.”

“Ah. I see.”

Harry wondered whether Hermione send Remus reports about his activities. There was enough talk in the newspapers about how he was chasing Draco Malfoy like a lovesick puppy, usually followed by speculation on whether he was under Imperius or some such thing.

The next question was not what he was expecting, but a relief instead. At first, at least.

“How is Tonks these days?”

Harry watched as Remus lifted the teacup to his lips, drank a small sip, and raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

“Well, I think. I bumped into her a few weeks ago. She was with Charlie Weasley.”

“Ah. Very good.”

“She seemed happy.”

“I’m sure she is. They were always well suited.”

There was nothing beyond casual interest in Remus’ expression. Harry still felt guilty about Tonks when he thought of her, but their relationship hadn’t lasted beyond a few weeks and some mediocre sex, and Tonks was always friendly when he saw her. He knew this was not the case with Remus.

“Yes.”

Harry realised that his tea had gone cold. He considered getting another cup, but it was too much a bother. He’d make some once he got home.

“You’re not well, Harry.”

How like Remus to be sneaky about it, to say such a thing after Harry had thought he was safe. He looked at his plate, the crumbs of his muffin. Maybe he should try baking. Blueberries? Or white chocolate and raspberries, maybe.

“I’m not saying that you need to get a job or certainly not that you should go back to Auror training. I appreciate the reasons why you left. But this inactivity is making you ill. You need to find something to do, Harry. Something else than trailing former enemies in bars and getting drunk by yourself.”

Harry grimaced and picked at his napkin.

“Have you come to tell me that I’m off my head?”

“It’s hardly my place to tell you that, Harry. Besides, I’m the last person to say you should give up a grand passion just because it makes no sense and there’s no guarantee of happiness.”

Harry forced out a little laugh.

“Or any chance of happiness, really. Seeing as he doesn’t fancy me.”

Remus tilted his head and looked at Harry for a long moment.

“I wouldn’t say that. And in any case, that’s not the point. The point is that you must choose a course of action that you can live with, and nothing less. No matter if it’s an inconvenience to others, if it bothers them, if it hurts them even. Choose something that doesn’t make you feel ashamed of yourself.”

“Is that what you did?”

A startled pause, and then Remus’ lips spread into a delighted smile. Not because the topic was pleasant, Harry reckoned, but because he was amused by Harry’s attempts to wheedle out his secrets.

“You could say that. But you could also say that nine years later there is nobody who doubts that it was the right decision, least of all Tonks herself. Even though Molly still condemns me for my selfishness and for breaking the poor girl’s heart.”

“Well, you did,”

“I know.”

“And you can live with that?”

Remus put his teacup down, precisely in the centre of the saucer.

“Yes, I can.”

Harry looked down, stared at the table. Such graceful calmness was beginning to irritate him.

“But at least you knew that Sirius always wanted you. You didn’t have to doubt that he loved you.”

The cup in front of Remus shuddered, even though Harry could see the other man’s hand were still in his lap. He looked up.

“You think there was a moment that I didn’t?”

There was a moment when they both looked surprised at Remus’ vehemence, but then he carried on with a steady voice.

“That’s not something you can ever really trust. There are people who will tell you all kinds of things, about perfect love and commitment and what you’re supposed to feel. But that’s not something…well, I never found that believing such things made me any happier.”

Harry thought of Molly Weasley and the way her cheeks would get redder and redder as she continued to explain the delights of matrimony to her children, or their friends, or anybody caught in the Weasleys’ kitchen during tea time. Arthur had been dead for six years, but it was clear to everyone that Molly still lived as if he was still there, as if Ron and Percy were still there. Harry found he could no longer bear to go to the Burrow.

“Yeah.”

“You know, Harry, some people have suggested that it’s because of Ron. That you dropped out of the Auror programme because Ron wanted to be an Auror and you couldn’t do it without him. That you didn’t marry Hermione like everyone thought you would,” Harry rolled his eyes at that, “because that’s what Ron was supposed to do.”

“I never actually went out with her, you know. What with us never fancying each other.”

Remus nodded, but couldn’t resist a teasing grin.

“And they say that you are chasing Draco Malfoy because Ron hated him, and you’re angry at Ron for dying. And of course, because you’re mad and being lured into a dark perverted path by a filthy Slytherin.”

Harry had to smile at that.

“Yes, well, aren’t we all. And of course I am mad, have been for years. It will only take one more super secret exposé from _The Daily Prophet_ to prove it once and for all.”

Remus nodded again, but his mouth was uncurving into a straight line.

“But there is something in what they say. Not that “they” aren’t usually completely mental,” Harry sniggered at that before Remus continued, “but there is such a thing as survivor’s guilt. Particularly if you’ve survived because a friend gave their life to save yours.”

Harry’s eyes found their way inescapably to the table. People didn’t talk to him about that, about Ron. But he supposed Remus had more right than most.

“Do you still think about it like that? That McGonagall sacrificed herself, for your sake?”

Remus had lifted the cup to his mouth, but he didn’t drink it. Nor did he look at Harry.

“In a way. There is a direct consequence between what she did and. Well. I would be dead if she hadn’t. But I don’t know why she did.”

Then there were sharp eyes, with a trace of what Harry hoped wasn’t pity, turning back to him.

“Have you talked to Draco about this?”

“No. I don’t… I don’t think it’s something he would want to talk about. I mean, his life during the war in general, or Snape in particular.”

The Death Eaters had found out that there was a spy. From what little information the Order had managed to gather, it seemed that somebody had accused Draco, of selling secrets, of failing to catch other informants, of a number of other things. The allegations had been convincing enough for Draco to be tortured for three days in Voldemort’s experimental laboratory, until Severus Snape had allowed himself to slip and be revealed as a double agent. They say he had lasted for a week.

Harry knew there were still marks on Draco’s body, long scars and bruises never intended to heal. They all had signs of battle on them now, burn marks and wounds and curses that ached after many years. Nobody had unblemished skin anymore, and it would have been a mark of shame if they had. With so many people dead, there was something embarrassing about being alive at all.

Ron Weasley had been killed in the last battle, taking a killing curse meant for Harry. Percy Weasley, waking up from an Imperius curse to find he had been used to kill Muggleborns, had killed himself with a Muggle gun. Arthur Weasley, killed by Fenrir Greyback while trying to protect his eldest son. Minerva McGonagall, killed in the last battle, stepping in front of a wounded Remus Lupin and crucio’d to death when she refused to bow down to Voldemort. Lavender Brown, a Death Eater, killed by Hermione Granger in the last battle. Ernie MacMillan, killed by death eaters in the last battle. Hannah Abbot, a Death Eater, killed by Draco Malfoy.

“I don’t suppose he would.”

Remus let out a long breath and sat back down on his chair. But his shoulders were still tense and he was staring at the table.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day, then, Harry?”

Harry looked at his hands, shredding his paper napkin to pieces, then looked at Remus’ hands, resting calmly around his teacup. He needed to learn how to do that.

“I don’t have any.”

“Good. Then perhaps we could continue this conversation in a nice bar close by?”

“Why Remus, are you trying to get me drunk?”

Remus smiled and Harry remembered why the whole of his third year DADA class had had a crush on this man, with the possible exception of Ron Weasley and Harry wasn’t even sure about him.

“Anywhere in particular you’d like to go?”

Remus shrugged, an elegant movement of thin shoulders, a glint in his eyes.

“It’s been a while since I met Draco.”

: :

After two bottles of wine Remus’ cheeks were almost as red as Harry’s and they still hadn’t found Draco. The current bar was nice, though, well lit and with comfortable sofas. Harry wasn’t quite falling asleep on his, yet.

“Can I ask you something, Harry?”

Harry gave Remus a look that attempted to be stern and raised his eyebrows.

“You can ask.”

Remus grinned, and Harry almost got lost on memories of his third year again before Remus continued.

“Why Draco Malfoy? I mean, what is it about him? He’s a good looking man, I know, but that isn’t reason enough for you to fall in love with him.”

Harry stared at the floor for a moment. That was the first time anybody had said that, out loud. Even the most vicious articles never mentioned anything more than a crush, but there was no condemnation in Remus’ voice, only curiosity.

“When we were…during the war, I didn’t see that much of him. I knew he was spying for us, but he worked mostly with Hermione and we didn’t really have any contact. But afterwards, when I was doing the Auror training, I’d see him around sometimes, cause he was working in the Ministry, cause he was friends with Hermione. And he seemed…so in control of himself. He went against everybody’s expectations of him, including his family’s. They were saying such horrible things about him, that he was a traitor, that he was a Death Eater and should be put to Azkaban with the rest of them. But he handled it so well. He didn’t mind the pressure, he didn’t mind the rumours. I found that…admirable.”

Remus nodded and poured himself another glass, leaving Harry’s glass conspicuously empty. Harry gave him a drunken grin.

“And then…I thought I might do that. That I could do that, not be an Auror, not work in the Ministry. I was getting more and more frustrated with the whole thing, spending most nights drinking by myself in my room…”

“Unlike now.”

“…unlike now, indeed. And there was a party, at Luna’s house or something, and I bumped into Draco. He had been in some room doing something with Blaise Zabini and they walked out, covered in, um, bites and stuff, and not at all embarrassed. That people could see them and know what they’ve been doing, and they didn’t care. And I just…well. The next day, I quit.”

“And now you spend your time getting drunk in public places and stalking Draco Malfoy?”

“Yes.”

Harry grinned again, and then his eyes caught something pale coming through the door and he stopped breathing.

“Is that a better way to spend your time then, do you think?”

“Yes, much better. Even though he doesn’t fancy me back.”

Remus tilted his head and looked at Harry.

“You know, it would have been quite easy for Draco to tell you that he wasn’t interested in such a way that you wouldn’t want to try again. You’ve noticed that he doesn’t do that.”

“Perhaps he just likes to see me make a fool of myself.”

Remus’ smile was threatening to become generous.

“You’re not being foolish, Harry, you’re being brave. I couldn’t do what you do.”

“There’s nothing brave about it. I just can’t _not_ do it.”

Remus’ smile didn’t change when two tall figures came to stand beside their table, and he didn’t look away from Harry. Harry pulled at his collar and tried to cough. The wine was making him dizzy.

“Evening, Potter. And Professor Lupin, always a pleasure.”

“Draco. Blaise.”

“Lovely to see you, Professor.”

“Why don’t you join us?”

There was a moment’s silence, and Harry thought that Hermione had clearly forgotten to give Remus the memo on what not to do when dealing with Harry and his crush. Draco seemed to be wondering the same thing, but he nodded, nevertheless, and Blaise gave Remus a salacious grin and they sat down.

Draco picked up at mostly empty wine bottle and frowned. Blaise was admiring Remus’ jumper and Remus was answering in a bemused tone, his voice growing lower and more gravelly. Harry watched the pulse on Blaise’s throat go faster and smiled.

“How much have you had to drink, Potter?”

Draco was still holding the bottle, lips moving towards a smirk and his eyebrows raised.

“Dunno. A few of them.”

“A few bottles. Why, Potter, you’re a pisshead. Isn’t that against the Gryffindor code or something?”

“Actually, I think it’s in the Gryffindor code. Thou shalt be brave in drunkenness, or something.”

“Thou shalt pass out after one bottle of cheap wine?”

“It wasn’t that cheap. Besides, Remus isn’t drunk and he’s had more than me.”

Draco glanced at the wine list and expressed his distaste with a mock shudder. Then he turned towards Remus, still talking to Zabini, who was suddenly sitting a lot closer to him.

“No, he doesn’t seem drunk. Is there a secret werewolf metabolism or some such thing?”

Harry thought about the stories Remus had told him of his father and Sirius and the excuses they tried to make when Remus could drink them under the table, and grinned.

“Don’t be ridiculous. No, he gets drunk, it just takes a while. Takes a lot more.”

“Oh really.”

Draco was still looking Remus, and the way Zabini was slowly trying to drape himself over him. He tilted his head for a better angle.

“That sounds fascinating, Potter. You must tell me all about it sometime.”

Harry added Draco to the list of students fancying Remus Lupin, and smirked.

“You coming to the party next week?”

Draco was looking at him with one inquisitive eyebrow raised while Harry tried to remember which one of their common acquaintances might be having a celebration.

“At Pansy’s house? Well, technically I suppose it’s Longbottom’s house, although I for one have no doubts at to which one of them rules the roost, as it were, and...”

“Oh at Neville’s? Yeah, sure. I had planned to go.”

Draco nodded and looked at the sofa, or possibly Zabini’s thigh, which was moving against Remus’ in an insidious fashion. Speaking to Harry about mutual friends was not unusual, and Harry was often grateful for any excuse that kept Draco in vicinity for a little longer. But inquiring after his plans was more personal, it gave the impression of a different kind of interest, beyond courtesy and flirtatious small talk. Draco tugged at the threads on the tablecloth, obviously annoyed now as well as awkward. Harry would have to consider that when he was sober.

There was clunk as Draco placed the bottle on the table.

“Right, then. I guess I’ll see you around, Potter. Blaise, let’s get going.”

Harry was given a sharp, fake smile before Draco turned to his friend and started poking his side. Zabini frowned and tried to push the offending finger aside, all without looking at Draco.

“Actually, Draco, I wouldn’t mind staying a bit longer. We are having the most interesting discussion about sexuality in eighteenth-century literature. Did you know there’s been a new article about Lovelace and Belford and homosocial relations? But of course, you haven’t read Clarissa, have you, you philistine…”

“Well, you can continue your seduction by heroic couplets another time. We need to go now.”

Zabini frowned, but allowed himself to be pulled up and bundled into his coat. Remus was smiling as serenely as ever, but there was a slight flush on his cheeks and he took a long sip from his glass.

“A pleasure as always, Professor. I’ll see you later, Potter.”

Harry didn’t move until the two men had left the room. Then he turned to Remus and raised an eyebrow.

Remus took another sip of his wine, but his lips quivered.

“Well, it is a fascinating article.”

: :

Harry had been to Neville’s house a few times but it was always a shock, the ordinary Victorian terrace house in the middle of London that suddenly turned into a sprawling Georgian mansion, complete with a driveway and a lush garden throughout the year. There were statues of nymphs and fauns that kept chasing each other and usually managed to do something lewd by the time Harry had walked to the door. This is was why he was often blushing when he first saw Neville, who was standing by the door and gazing happily at the fornication taking place at his lawn. Harry assumed he had got used to it, but still, it was strange.

Neville smiled and gave him a glass of wizarding champagne, making Harry breathe out in bubbles for a few minutes. There was music coming from the inside of the house, The Weird Sisters, or maybe their younger rivals, The Space Hippogriffs.

The walls, as ever, were deep green.

“What is it with Slytherins and their greenness? I mean, I like red and gold and all, but I wouldn’t decorate my house with it. Not that this doesn’t look nice, Neville, but just…why?”

Neville shrugged.

“I know what you mean. I tried asking Pansy, and she said that it was her favourite colour and that should be reason enough. But Blaise tried explaining it to me once. He said that Slytherins like green, not because it’s slimy and snakelike, and he waggled his eyebrows like you know he does…”

Harry frowned and tried not to think about Zabini waggling his eyebrows before swooping down to lick Draco’s collarbone in last week’s _Whizz Art._

“…but because all the other houses hate it, because of them. So they have to love it. And I don’t mind. I like green.”

Harry smiled.

“The colour of your garden?”

There was a slight flush in Neville’s cheeks and a quirk in his lips.

“Pansy has green eyes. She says that’s why it’s her favourite colour and that’s why she’s in Slytherin.”

Harry grinned and tried to imagine a first-year Pansy Parkinson having an earnest conversation with the Sorting Hat about why she belonged in Slytherin.

“I see.”

Neville smiled back and opened the door to the entertaining room, which Harry always called the ballroom in his head since it looked like there should be ladies in voluminous gowns swirling around the dance floor. This evening, however, the room contained Blaise Zabini attempting to curl himself around Hermione, while Fred and George watched them with looks that suggested some painful curse would be imminent. Neither Blaise nor Hermione seemed to mind. And Padma Patil, dressed like a Girls Aloud wannabe, smoothing her hands down Draco’s arse as they gyrated to the music.

Harry decided he should enjoy some more champagne.

: :

“Who’s that bloke?”

Harry pointed at a short, balding man who was staring at Harry with disturbing avidity and nodding vehemently at his companion. The last few glasses had made Harry pleasantly mellow and blurred many of the people circulating in the room. This person, however, wasn’t whispering tactfully behind his hand like the others and thus made it difficult to ignore him.

“That’s Pansy’s boss, Odo Mollust. He owled me and asked for an invitation, said he especially wanted to meet you.”

“Why didn’t he ask Pansy?”

Neville grinned proudly.

“He’s scared of her.”

Harry nodded. If he were a middle-aged man working as Pansy Parkinson’s superior, he’d be scared too.

“Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

“Er, Neville, I’m sure he’s a nice man and all…”

“He’s going to speak to you at some point, Harry. Might as well be before you’re completely pissed.”

Harry considered how drunk he planned to be in an hour’s time, downed his glass and followed Neville.

“Mr. Potter! Such a pleasure to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you of course, the whole of the wizarding world owes you a debt of gratitude and I personally…”

Usually it was best to let people get to the end of their little speech before interrupting, and Harry quickly stopped listening and allowed himself to imagine what choice words Pansy might have for somebody so obviously unable to control his own. The man was thanking Harry for saving the life of his Aunt Gertrude, who had apparently once been in a city where Death Eaters had attacked. Neither Harry nor the aunt had been anywhere near the battle, but Mr. Mollust was keen to express his gratitude nevertheless and he went on for some time. Harry was starting to wonder how somebody so lacking in social skills would be employed in such a prominent position, when the man got to his point.

“…and of course, as I was saying to Minister Scrimgeour just the other day, not everybody is suited to be an Auror! And it is a rather unfortunate line of work, one has to consort with all kinds of criminals, don’t you know…”

Harry raised an eyebrow and looked at Neville, whose mouth was quickly forming into an overtly pleasant smile.

“Actually, Odo, I haven’t _consorted_ with criminals once since I’ve been in the bureau…”

“Of course, Neville, I didn’t mean like that, you know what I meant…”

“So those rumours about you and Terry Boot weren’t true then?” Harry inquired with a deadpan face. Neville’s reply was equally serious.

“Now, Harry, there was never any evidence that Terry had anything to do with that bootleg firewhisky ring…”

“Actually, Neville, would you mind if I had a word with Mr. Potter alone?”

Neville nodded politely, but his eyes were cool. Harry considered Pansy’s likely reaction when she felt somebody was insulting her husband, and decided to say nothing. And reminded himself to ask later whether the man had survived.

“Now, Harry, the reason I wanted to speak to you was that I have been instructed to make you an offer.”

The man’s voice became affable and confidential as he beckoned Harry to lean closer. Harry stood up straight and raised his eyebrows.

“There are other employment possibilities in the Ministry besides the Auror’s Bureau. The Department of Magical Law Reform is looking for people like you, Harry, for people who care about the future of our society and are prepared to fight for it. And as it happens, we have a position available that would be just perfect for you.”

There was always a moment when people decided that he was Harry instead of Mr. Potter, Harry whom they knew from the papers and whose personality they were familiar with. It never ceased to amaze Harry how often people expected him to appreciate such treatment.

“Thank you, Mr. Mollust, but I don’t think I’d be interested. I have no plans to seek employment in the near future.”

“Just hear me out, Harry, hear me out! The job would entail lots of exciting things, travelling, meeting with the Wizengamot, planning the regulation of our government! Now, we know you’re not that keen on reading, Harry, but of course you wouldn’t have to do all that yourself. We can offer you an assistant, a young man named Zacharias Smith who I believe was at school with you? A blond, good looking young fellow?”

“Are you offering him a job or a rent boy? My, my, I see the Ministry’s employment methods have changed. Do you get to choose a particular kind of, ahem, assistant? Or are they all blond and fit?”

Blaise Zabini’s bored drawl rarely failed to irritate Harry, but the look of astonishment on Odo Mollust’s face was rather priceless.

“What, I don’t know what you mean, Zabini…”

“Really, Mollust. They should stop sending you out on missions like this. Your attitude only entices people to further indolence.”

Mollust’s voice took on an entirely different cadence when he spoke to Zabini. Clearly he was unaware that Zabini’s reputation was worse than Pansy’s when it came to conversations such as this. Harry leaned back against the wall and prepared to enjoy the spectacle.

“You should know, Mr. Zabini, that not everybody holds your attitude towards honest work.”

Zabini looked at Harry and rolled his eyes, as if to share amusement at the idea of the Ministry as honest.

“Not everybody has my talent for being a gentleman of leisure. Luckily Mr. Potter has been able to see the pleasures inherent in it, although I must say that he is also better suited for it than you are.”

Mollust glanced at Harry with a rather alarming eagerness.

“Mr. Potter is an upstanding citizen, not a filthy Slytherin like you!”

“Now really, Mollust, is that any kind of language to use? What would Pansy say if she knew you went about saying things like that?”

Harry watched with interest as the man’s flushed cheeks turned pale. Zabini’s smile was predatory and he was tilting his head, one perfect eyebrow raised and clearly enjoying himself immensely.

“Um, excuse me, I’m afraid I have to leave, my wife is expecting me, good night, Mr. Potter, please tell Neville that I…”

Mollust’s voice dropped off and he blinked twice at Harry before scurrying away. Zabini smirked.

“Now, the problem with you Gryffindors is that you’re too damn polite. People like that get away with things because they expect you to behave well even if they don’t. You shouldn’t let them.”

“Telling house secrets, Blaise?”

Draco’s voice was coming just behind Harry’s ear.

“Hardly. I’m making sure Potter owes me a favour.”

“What? I could have…”

“Yeah, I’m sure you could have done but you didn’t. But don’t worry, it won’t be anything painful or embarrassing.”

“Well, what’s the fun in that?”

“Shush, Draco. Potter, you can thank me by telling me about Remus. Help me out, as it were.”

“Why would I help you with him?”

Zabini’s grin turned, if possible, even more lascivious.

“Don’t you think your friend deserves some happiness?”

“With you?”

Draco was looking at Zabini with equal scepticism.

“Indeed.”

Harry scoffed.

“Remus is too clever to be fooled by somebody like you.”

“Well, then there’s no harm in your telling me more about him. Unless you think he can’t hold his own? Is he that weak?”

“Hardly.”

“Good. I’ll send you an owl sometime next week, you can buy me a drink and tell me all about getting into Remus’s pants.”

“What?”

“Please, Potter. Don’t say you haven’t thought about it.”

Harry tried valiantly to look less drunk.

“What makes you think you would succeed? It’s not like people haven’t tried before.”

There was an identical smile on Draco’s face as he and his friend considered the seduction of Remus Lupin. Harry swallowed.

“We’ll have to see, won’t we? See you later, Potter.”

Zabini winked at him. It managed to convey that Harry was included in the amusement rather than that he was the object of it, which Harry would have been grateful for if Zabini wasn’t so bloody annoying.

Especially when he continued talking as if Harry wasn’t there.

“See, the thing with Gryffindors is to use logic against them. They’re not prepared to handle it and so they can’t resist.”

Even Draco’s snort managed to be elegant.

“Even Granger?”

“Especially Granger. She can no more resist a well constructed argument than she can resist a Weasley sandwich.”

As they walked away, Harry shook his head and went in search of more champagne.

: :

Two hours later there had been some more champagne, one strange cocktail that Anthony Goldstein had pressed into his hand, and a large glass of water Neville had made him down. Harry was still pleasantly buzzing but he could feel the headache looming at the edge of his consciousness. Finding a quiet, dark room seemed like a really good idea, and so Harry began walking carefully up the stairs.

He took a moment’s rest at the top, then opened the first door where no moaning could be heard.

Apparently they had only been quiet. Or possibly gagged; there had been lots of red hair and Hermione holding some kind of a riding crop so Harry hadn’t lingered.

The next door opened before he could knock.

Draco’s clothes were still mostly on, but a few buttons were missing and there was a large hickey on his collarbone. His eyes became serious as soon as he saw Harry.

There was too much pale skin showing but Harry managed to find his tongue and forced it to speak.

“Well, not much point in asking tonight, is there? Seeing as evidently somebody has already been in your pants.”

“How is that any of your business, Potter?”

Draco’s voice was rough and cold, and not even aiming for the usual disinterest.

“It isn’t. Just thought I should ask. Seeing as you’re here. And looking very tasty.”

Draco made a small noise, of frustration or annoyance, and Harry had to lean against the wall.

“Why do you keep asking, Potter?”

“Because you will always say no.”

A moment of stillness, then a flash of red in the pale cheeks. But the eyes weren’t cold anymore, and the knots on Harry’s neck began to loosen.

“And what would you do if I said yes?”

Harry showed his teeth when he grinned.

“I would take you up on it.”

“Would you really? Cause I’m starting to think this is a different kind of game. Where I’m the snitch you don’t want to catch, because that would mean the end of the match. Maybe you’re tired of winning, Potter. Maybe it’s more fun to be an eternal Seeker, always on the lookout. I don’t think you want to catch me.”

Harry kept his hands in his pockets. It was important to look casual, he knew. But it wasn’t difficult to keep smiling when Draco’s voice became more and more incensed.

“Only one way to find out, Malfoy.”

Draco laughed, a contemptuous sound that only slightly betrayed his agitation.

“Oh is that the way you plan to go about it? You want to make this a challenge?”

Harry shrugged, allowing curiosity and amusement to show on his face.

“Do you really think it could be anything else?”

And suddenly Draco’s face was stark white and serious, his mouth a straight line.

“Okay, Potter. Here’s the thing. You can have one night. I will fuck you. But it will be on my terms.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, but the slow smile that spread on Draco’s face made the hair rise on his neck.

“You will come to my flat, tomorrow night. There you will allow me to strip you naked, tie you down on my bed, and let me do what I want with you. No questions, no complaints, no nothing. Is that acceptable?”

Harry swallowed, let Draco see that, and kept his voice hard.

“Will I be allowed to moan?”


	2. Chapter 2

Harry hadn’t been to Draco’s flat before. His parties were always held in public places, rented hotels or the country houses of his friends, and the ones Harry had attended had been large affairs, impersonal and fairly uneventful. Harry had heard from Hermione that the extravagance reported in _The Daily Prophet_ about his private gatherings was greatly exaggerated. The only orgy she had ever witnessed had been when she had accidentally stepped into someone’s bedroom and caught a glimpse of Draco engaged in a threesome with Blaise Zabini and Padma Patil. Hermione had refused to explain their positions to Harry, despite much pleading and Harry’s attempts at bribery.

But the flat was nice, as posh as Harry had expected but less ostentatious. He didn’t, however, get much opportunity to look it over, a few brief glances at the hallways and a vague impressions of oil-paintings portraying saintly figures in various stages of undress in the living room before he was pushed into the bedroom.

There was no four-poster bed, no satin sheets. Harry felt vaguely disappointed by this, his fantasies of being stretched open on sinfully red linen quickly disappearing. But the room was large and airy, one wall covered by bookshelves and plants, another consisting mostly of high windows, showing the lights of London by night. And in the centre there was a bed, cast iron carvings forming into strange shapes and elegant curls. There were also bed-knobs, on which to tie a man’s hands.

Draco had opened to door and now stood quiet beside him, watching him. There was an expectant stillness about him that made Harry want to press his nails into his palms. He resisted and spoke instead.

“Could I get a drink? Some wine or something?”

Draco didn’t look away for a moment.

“No, Potter. I want you to be sober for this.”

Harry blinked and looked down.

“Right.”

Another blink and another pause.

“You scared?”

Harry looked up. Draco’s face was more guarded than he had ever seen it.

“No, I’m not. You can do what you want with me. As I said.”

The tiniest movement of an Adam’s apple and then the familiar smirk.

“Good. Now take your clothes off.”

Harry lifted his hands to his collar, loosened his tie. This was the first challenge, whether he would lose his nerves, whether he would be embarrassed or awkward. He wetted his lips and began to open the buttons of his shirt, all the while looking at Draco. Pulled it down his shoulders, leaving it dangling by his wrists as he battled with the cufflinks, then shook it off. Allowed Draco to see a little smirk.

He kicked his shoes off, opened the buttons on his trousers. He wasn’t nervous anymore, this was something else, a different sort of tingle. Draco was looking at him, his eyes narrowed, his hands curved around one of the bedposts. Harry wetted his lips again and prepared to pull down his trousers.

“No. Leave them for now.”

Harry paused, his hands in mid motion.

“Why do you want this, Potter? Why this? Why me?”

“Why not you? What’s wrong with you?”

“That’s not an answer, Potter.”

Draco was glaring at him, but Harry kept his eyes steady, his hands shifting slightly on his half-opened trousers.

“Fine then. Get on the bed. And take your socks off.”

Harry did as he was told, hiding the trembling of his hands in rapid movement. The sheets under him were smooth, but he resisted the urge to stroke them as he kneeled on the bed.

“On your back. Lift your arms above your head. Spread your legs.”

Draco’s strident voice made Harry twitch his lips. He arranged himself in the required position, rolled his hips in a mock-submissive fashion, and raised his eyebrows. But Draco didn’t scowl, didn’t smirk even or make a sarcastic remark. He stepped closer and leaned in.

“What do you want, Potter?”

Harry let out a breath, his lungs suddenly too small to contain any air. He licked his lips and raised his head.

“I want you to do what you said you would. Tie me up. Fuck me.”

Draco’s laugh was sharp.

“You’re a fucking demanding bastard, you know.”

“And you’re not?”

“Fucking hell. You come here, you display yourself, all meek and pretty and available as if everybody doesn’t know, as if I don’t know that you’re just doing this cause you can. You make these demands as if there was nothing in the world but Harry Potter and what he wants. That’s all that matters.”

Harry swallowed. This wasn’t going to work, not like this.

“Look, Draco…”

“Malfoy! My name is Malfoy!”

“Okay, sorry, Malfoy. But that’s not it at all. I mean, yes, of course I want you, I’ve told you that, I’ve told everybody that, I’m laughed at in street corners because of that and _The Daily Prophet_ has started saying I’m insane again.”

“But of course. Since it would be insane for the great Harry Potter to fancy somebody like me. Bad enough that it’s a man, but a Slytherin, a Death Eater, a spy…”

Draco’s articulation was rough with contempt, and it was all Harry could do to keep from standing up and touching him.

“No, because the great Harry Potter is making a fool of himself for a man who doesn’t want him back!”

His voice was louder than he’d realised. He forced himself to breathe out evenly, give at least the appearance of calm

“But I don’t mind, Draco. Malfoy. And I don’t mind if it’s just the one night, and if I have to challenge you and blackmail you into doing it. It’s still better than nothing.”

Draco’s breathing was as harsh as Harry’s own and his hands were gripping the bed. He was close enough for Harry to see the pulse in his throat, beating rapidly, and the flush of his cheeks despite the cold room. Then Draco nodded, and Harry started breathing again.

The muscles in his shoulders had just began to relax when Draco flicked his wand, bringing forth long leather straps from behind the bed that tied themselves around Harry’s wrists and ankles. Harry was pulled back, slightly more uncomfortable than he had been before, slightly more open. He tugged at the straps and found that he could move them a little. Not that that would help him if Malfoy wanted to keep him there. Not that he would want to move.

“Ready, Potter?”

The cold mask was back, but there were still a few signs of tension visible in the hard line of the mouth and the tilt of the jaw. As Harry looked on, those traces seemed to disappear.

“I’m ready.”

“Good.”

Draco started taking his own clothes off, swift utilitarian movements that intended no seduction. But Harry had never been more turned on in his life, no matter how precarious the agreement between them, no matter how great the potential for humiliation. This was Draco, and that was more than anything else had ever been. He could feel the slow coil of desire in the pit of his belly, making him want to stretch languorously on the bed, making him want to bite back a moan and be challenged for another one.

Then Draco was naked, half-hard but that could have been just the adrenaline, and Harry did bite his lip. There were expanses of pale skin, as he’d imagined, not milky white but something more translucent, something suggesting fragility and the blue veins underneath it. Nothing frail in the muscles and the jutting bones, the sharp edge of the hipbone that Harry wanted to try with his teeth, the smooth curve of thighs and arse that required stroking. Draco’s chest was narrow and Harry could have counted his ribs, still so thin from lack of food, from illness, torture. So many things he wanted to do and he didn’t know if his hands would be untied at any point tonight.

“Lie back, Potter.”

Harry couldn’t move when Draco shifted closer, could barely breathe with his lungs too full and his skin too tight, stretching painfully over his body.

“Nudo.”

Harry’s trousers and pants disappeared, and he watched Draco look down, smirk, and look back at him. He knew that he was hard, and even the cold sweat on his back or Draco’s desperate contempt couldn’t shake that.

Draco kneeled by Harry’s feet, his wand still in his hand. He kept looking at Harry, with consideration, almost dispassionate except for the white-knuckled grip on his wand. He tilted his head, and then Harry had to look him in the eye.

“This isn’t quite appropriate, Potter. Let’s turn you around.”

Draco flicked his wand and Harry found himself lifted up and flipped around so that he was lying on his stomach. The bindings fastened themselves again to the bedposts, and he could feel Draco’s legs brushing against his own.

A very different kind of vulnerability now, and Harry couldn’t even see Draco, had no way of knowing what would come next, what would he be touched with. If he would be touched.

“You did say you wanted to be fucked, Potter?”

Harry breathed out, and pushed the words from his thick tongue.

“Yes. I want to be fucked.”

“Good.”

And there were hands on his ankles, not caressing, just feeling their way through Harry’s legs, up to his knees where an accidental thumb pressed into the taut flesh behind his knee. Harry drew a shaky breath, and the bindings were slipping under his hands, too smooth under his sweaty grip.

“I can see you like this, Potter. Being tied down, helpless and spread and naked. For some reason I am completely unastonished.”

“Is that a word?”

Draco’s hands were sliding up Harry’s thighs, slowly, taking note of every straining muscle. Harry’s hips jerked and he pressed his cock into the mattress.

“You want to argue semantics with me, Potter? How’s this then: if a man refuses to do his job and take up his mission in life, the mission everybody thinks is his, does that make him a failure? Or a hero?”

Draco’s melodic drawl was pushing all of Harry’s buttons, bringing back the itching annoyance of his schooldays and tugging straight at his cock at the same time. Harry bit down a groan.

“Neither.”

“You refuse to argue the point?”

Draco’s thumbs were resting at the top of Harry’s thighs, just beneath his arse, stroking his cheeks and pulling them slightly apart. Harry felt his arse contract.

“Perhaps another time, Potter. Right then. Accio lube!”

Harry heard the smack of something solid into Draco’s palm.

“You don’t mind doing it the Muggle way, do you? It takes a bit longer but seeing as there is to be no other preparation, I thought it more appropriate.”

Harry blinked against the white sheets. His legs were nudged wider apart and he tried not to think about how vulnerable he must look. He pressed his face into the pillow and scrunched his eyes closed.

There was a finger sliding down his arse.

“There now, Potter. You needn’t look so scared. This isn’t your first time, is it?”

Draco paused, his finger just above Harry’s pucker.

“No.”

“Good. Well, that’s another story you’ll have to tell me sometime. Now, relax. You know this is going to hurt otherwise.”

Harry opened his eyes and lifted his head, tried to turn around to look at Draco.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about that.”

The harsh laugh was too close and Harry froze, his neck painfully twisted at Draco circled his finger.

“Of course. The great Harry Potter can take anything. Is that why you wanted me for this? Cause no one else would be rough with you? You just haven’t been to the right brothel, Potter. Really, they’re not that hard to find.”

There was venom again, the almost spitting of casual words that made Harry try to twist his head again.

“No, that’s not what…”

“Save it, Potter. I’m not going to hurt you.”

And then there was a slow, slick finger entering him and curling gently. Harry twitched and clutched at his bindings, but Draco’s hands were sure, the movement smooth and continuous. His cock was growing painfully under him, every touch on his prostate making him swell and moan.

“See? So much nicer when you go slow. So much more…enjoyable to watch.”

The sudden image of himself spread-eagled, tied up, arse in air and Draco’s finger inside him made Harry groan.

“I’m so glad you’re enjoying it too, Potter.”

Harry could hear the smirk and grinned into his pillow. Then Draco pushed another finger into him and he had to concentrate on his breathing. There was another hand, resting innocently on Harry’s arse, pulling his cheeks apart, while the other hand was moving rhythmically in and out of him. Harry pushed back against those fingers. Draco’s knees were pressing against his thighs, keeping them apart and Harry couldn’t help but shiver desperately at the contact.

“Why, Potter, you…”

The teasing voice seemed to crack and for the first time Harry could hear Draco’s breathing, rough and unsteady.

“Right then.”

The words were almost mumbled, Draco’s focus clearly somewhere else. Harry twitched at the thought.

He was expecting the third finger now, for of course Draco would want to be properly prepared, of course he wouldn’t be sloppy or hurried or anything that might resemble anxiety. Or desire, for that matter. Harry felt his stomach flip but it wasn’t a pleasant feeling, it wasn’t the mind-jerking sensation of the usual Draco-induced lust. But Draco’s fingers were moving inside him, moving in and out of him and there was little Harry could do expect spread his legs further apart and bite into his pillow.

There were not taunting words this time, only a swift withdrawal of hands and the sounds of a condom wrap being torn open. And then Draco pressing against his back, his svelte body warm against Harry’s sweat-cold skin, and his cock hard against Harry’s arse. There were little puffs of air brushing his neck, and Harry had to wilfully resist the urge to tense.

Then Draco’s cock was nudging at his entrance and it was slow, so slow and hard and blunt and Harry moaned. But Draco’s teeth were sharp at his neck and at that Harry let go, gave in to the feeling of being breached and spread and wantonly opened. He was making unabashed mewling noises at the back of his throat and it didn’t matter that Draco had barely touched him, had only used his mouth to bite the back of Harry’s neck in a vague gesture of possession. He was being filled and Draco’s hands were covering his arms, keeping them in place and they were both moving, the rhythm erratic and uneven and oh so good.

Then Draco’s hand was grabbing his cock, slick and sloppy and not quite achieving the impersonality it was aiming for. Harry was twitching helplessly between Draco’s cock and his hand, stretched and unable to move, shivering now at every touch and breathing hard. Draco was pushing into him, faster now, and his lips were at Harry’s ear and at that Harry came, jerking uncontrollably under Draco’s hand. A few more rough thrusts and then Harry felt Draco shudder inside him.

They were quiet for a moment, Draco’s forehead pressed against Harry’s shoulder and his lips dry against Harry’s skin. Then he lifted himself up, pulled out of Harry, stood on shaky feet beside the bed.

“Scourgify.”

Harry felt the cleaning charm float on his skin, moving over and around and inside him. His body felt heavy and he still had difficulty breathing.

“Aperite.”

The bindings became loose and then disappeared behind the bed. Harry tried to stretch his fingers, but they were cramped from being in the same position for too long. Then he turned around on the bed.

Draco was already half dressed, his tie hanging loose on his shoulders, his buttons mostly done. There was a slight flush on his cheeks and his lips were thoroughly bitten. Harry swallowed.

“You can stay the night, Potter, if you like. Feel free to help yourself to any breakfast in the morning, the house-elves usually make too much food anyway. Good night.”

Harry blinked and tried to make sense of the words. The horrible dread was welling in his stomach.

“Wait, Malfoy. Can’t you just…look, this is…”

Draco tilted his head and looked at Harry. There was something in the curve of his mouth that betrayed the coolness of his expression. Harry forced his voice to steadiness.

“Will you not let me touch you?”

“That wasn’t part of our deal, Potter.”

The words were uttered without contempt but there was too much formality, a casual reminder with slight disappointment, for them to be anything but insulting.

“Yes. How silly of me to assume that we would shag without me touching you once.”

“You wanted me to fuck you so you could feel something. Don’t confuse that desire for something else.”

The last were snarled with teeth and Harry could feel warmth of battle rising in his stomach. But before he could say anything, Draco had nodded and left the room, carefully not slamming the door.

“Fuck.”

Harry got up, got dressed and wrote a brief note. He left on the bedside table, and walked out to the hallway, Apparated home.

 _Dear Draco,_

 _Thank you for your hospitality. You have been very generous and I am grateful._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Harry Potter._

: :

Cleaning seemed to work. Harry had started by clearing the kitchen of empty wine bottles, taking his rubbish out and visiting the bottle bank. Recycling always made him feel virtuous, and the cold air felt good on his coatless arms.

It was important to get rid of things like old newspapers. They cluttered up the living room and made it hard to keep it clean. He had assigned them their own recycling bag.

Harry had stopped Vanishing garbage during the first year in his own flat. It didn’t just disappear, it always had to go somewhere and after Harry had discovered mouldy bread in his sock-drawer for the third time he had decided to give up on cleaning charms. He knew how to do it the Muggle way, after all, had learned the best and fastest ways of keeping things clean. And there was pleasure in it as well, knowing that he could look after himself in this way at least, knowing that he could keep control of his own mess.

And it served a purpose.

It wasn’t the kind of anger that shattered glassware or created bubbles into his walls. Harry didn’t want to break things and he had learned, during the long nights of his training, that the destruction of things, whether mindless or mindful, didn’t satisfy him. There had been classes on How To Channel Magical Energy Without Destroying Ministry Property (or anger management, as Hermione had called it), and their techniques had made Harry amused instead of enraged for a few moments.

But there was still the need to do something with it. Hermione had advised him to try writing it down, to put his frustration into words. Harry had tried writing down all the reasons he was angry but it was hard and he was no good at it. The words he used didn’t mean what he wanted to say, and he couldn’t find better words, couldn’t use them so fluently that they would work. It had made him worse.

Cleaning was better. And baking, although Harry had to be careful not to explode the flour packets.

So when the owl arrived, he didn’t ignore it or send it away without a reply. Nor did he collapse on the sofa when it wasn’t from Draco.

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I got an owl from Remus saying he was coming to town again, and I wondered if you could invite us both over for a meal? You know how he gets about me buying him dinner, he keeps saying our relationship isn’t yet at that stage and up to that moment he must insist on being a gentleman. So would you mind? Let me know!_

 _Love, Hermione_

: :

Hermione stared at the green cauldron and Harry wished he had added some kind of artificial colouring just to see her face contort even more as she tried to look polite. Remus quirked his eyebrows and poured everyone a glass of white wine. Harry considered putting on music, then decided against it.

“What is this, then, Harry? Some kind of veggie curry?”

Remus skewered a cashew nut with his fork and lifted it to his mouth.

“Yeah, with aubergines and carrots and garlic. How does it taste?”

“It’s lovely. You made this from scratch, yeah?”

Hermione smiled and nodded along, with the supreme tranquillity of a woman who ate only ready-made meals and felt no shame about it.

“Yeah. Got a good recipe book.”

“It’s very nice, Harry.”

Harry nodded, his eyes on the table, and took a long sip of his wine.

“So, Remus. I hear you’re becoming very friendly with a certain young Slytherin.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows slightly, her mouth curved in friendly inquisition. Remus kept his eyes lowered and swirled the wine in his glass.

“Has Harry been telling you tales?”

There was a slight grin on Remus’ face, not wholly accounted for by amusement. Harry thought about the conversation he’d had with Blaise when they had gone out for drinks, and hid his smirk by attempting to swallow a large piece of potato.

“No, actually it was Malfoy.”

Harry put his fork down very carefully.

“Saw him a few days ago, he’s doing some project with Anthony Goldstein, you might remember, he was a Ravenclaw in our year…”

A slight frown was forming on Remus’ brow, and he tapped his lip with a finger.

“I think I heard something…isn’t he that young man who was going out with Seamus Finnegan?”

Not thinking about Draco should have meant not thinking about the ways his hands moved when he spoke, not unlike Remus’ were now, except his fingers were paler, narrower, with a tiny scar on his left ring finger. Harry had never asked.

“No, that’s Terry Boot. I think Anthony Goldstein used to go out with Oliver Wood…”

“Oh yes, who plays Quidditch for Puddlemere…”

“Yeah, that’s the one. I’m surprised you remember, Remus, Oliver was never much of a scholar. Spend most of his last year dragging Harry and the others into Quidditch practice every night.”

It should also have meant not imagining Draco flying, his cheeks flushed from the wind, sweat gathering on his forehead. Or in the showers afterwards, in the Slytherin locker rooms that Harry had never seen, washing away defeat and emerging through the doors with more pent-up determination than Harry had ever felt.

“Oh, well, he seemed like a very nice young man. I feel I should take an interest in all my students, Hermione. Regardless of their academic talents.”

Hermione’s smile began to show her teeth. Harry took a careful sip of his wine and began to eat again.

“Really, Remus? Is that why you’ve been spending time with Blaise Zabini? Inquiring after his…talents?”

Fortunately, Harry had time to swallow his food before bursting out laughing. Hermione was looking at him with slight annoyance and Remus’ cheeks fought to control his blush.

“Well, he is a very talented man. A most intriguing scholar and rather good company.”

One last bubble of laughter as Harry considered Remus’ habit of adding qualifications to every adjective when he was unsettled.

“Indeed?”

There was a query in the word, an invitation to explain further, but Remus merely twisted his lips and nodded, well skilled in avoiding questions from less subtle interrogators than Hermione.

“Well, I shall look forward to seeing Blaise again. You coming, Harry?”

“What? Where?”

“Party. On Saturday, at Blaise’s house.”

“Ah. Well, probably not, see…”

“He asked me to invite you especially. Besides, you should come just to guard Remus’ virtue against devious Slytherins.”

“Oh, are you going as well? That’s cool.”

“Yeah, Blaise said he has a first edition copy of this poem I wanted to see.”

“Of course, Remus, that’s why you’ve come to town for a week before the party…”

“Actually, Hermione, I had some other business to attend to. But thank you for your interest.”

The silence was momentarily terrible, but then Remus clicked his wine glass against the table and Harry continued chewing on his aubergine. Hermione was staring at the table, biting her lip. Harry thought about getting up and bringing the dessert in.

“I’m sorry, Remus. It’s none of my business.”

Remus smiled, a calm enough surface to cover the coldness of his voice.

“Never mind, Hermione. Just consider how would you feel if someone asked you such questions. And whether you’d be prepared to answer them.”

He was very polite, very reasonable, but that somehow made the rejection worse. You shall go this far and no further, and Harry wondered, for the thousandth time, what was it that had made Tonks rail against Remus’ boundaries for so long. And how had Sirius succeeded where she had not. And, with most curiosity, how it would be managed by Blaise Zabini.

“Would anyone like some chocolate mousse?”

: :

Blaise’s front door was a deep forest green. Harry tried to think up a funny joke about how it would always look like Christmas, but when the door opened to reveal Zabini in dark burgundy robes he felt there was little he could say. The cloth made his skin glow, dark and smooth and tempting, and Harry tried to remember that he didn’t like Blaise while looking friendly at the same time. Zabini smirked.

“Potter. Do come in, why don’t you. The drinks are to your left and Draco is somewhere upstairs. Try the second door.”

Harry stepped inside and gave a pleasant smile.

“Thanks. I’ll help myself.”

Zabini raised an eyebrow.

“To the wine.”

“Oh? You don’t think there’s anything else here that might tempt you?”

Amusement showed on Zabini’s face, and Harry decided he was tired of being entertainment. He tilted his head, looked slowly down Zabini’s body, taking note of an artfully errant button and the tantalisingly low trousers. Then he looked up and wetted his lips.

“No, actually. But thanks.”

Zabini’s grin turned into honest delight and he patted Harry on the shoulder.

“Come on, Potter, you’ve got to keep at him. No one makes him squirm like you do. It’s great fun to watch.”

The image of Draco squirming under Zabini’s hands came and went, leaving Harry only slightly shaken. He was used to such thoughts by now.

“Right. I think I see Neville. Excuse me.”

As he walked towards the drinks table and the Neville-shaped bulk by the fireplace, Harry thought about how much he appreciated the skill of being rude to people without feeling guilty. It seemed very easy with Zabini, but he would have to practice more.

Neville looked up and smiled at Harry.

“Hullo, there.”

“Hullo, Neville. How are you? How is Pansy?”

Neville grinned widely and took a big bite of his canapé. Blue cheese and apple, flushed down with tawny port. Zabini’s table looked impressive; Harry could see twenty different nibbles and half as many wines to go with them, and that was just at this table. There were little oases of food and drink sprinkled throughout the room, and there seemed to be more in the hallway. The air was full of spice and heavy wines.

“She’s great, just got promoted. Well, she got her boss, you remember Odo Mollust, she got him fired and they gave her his job. A good thing too, she’s much better at it than he is.”

Harry grinned.

“And what about you? Still enjoying being an Auror?”

Neville shrugged, looking at the table with measured consideration.

“It’s okay. It’s better now that I don’t get sent around to solve petty thefts and domestic problems.”

“Have they finally realised that you’re actually very good at fighting dark wizards?”

Neville grimaced.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. But they are starting to think that I might not be as incompetent as they would like me to be.”

Harry nodded and poured himself a glass of the port. Heavy, dark liquid, warm on his tongue, loosening his joints. Its warmth began to spread through his body, and he felt his smile curving more easily.

“What about you, Harry, have you thought of anything you want to do?”

Harry swallowed his drink, then put it on the table, but without letting go of it. He kept his eyes on the food. Vegetable samosas or sushi? Dirty ricesticks or camembert?

“Not really, no.”

“Well, no reason why you should. I mean, you don’t need to work, you don’t need the money. And there’s lots of stuff you can do without having a job.”

Neville’s voice was earnest, and the lines on his face indicated nothing but sincere thought. Harry knew how often people mistook that sincerity for simplicity; how often Neville let Pansy use her vast collection of courteous insults on such people, and how often he just let it be. Neville had a talent for seeing things clearly, as well as a talent for tolerance, which Harry envied. Neville wore the marks of Bellatrix Lestrange’s curse on his face and there were only three fingers on his left hand, a sign of the protective charm that had attacked him when he killed her. Yet he was called a coward and a fool, and he lived with that, just as he lived with the knowledge of what had been done to him in the war, and of what he had done to others. Harry admired Neville’s peace.

“What would you do? If you didn’t have a job, if you didn’t work? How would you spend your time?”

“Travel, maybe. Read more, there’s lots of stuff I’d like to know about, not just herbology. I think I used to like it in school because I was crap at everything else. But now, I’d quite like to try some other stuff. Arithmancy, maybe. Transfiguration. Potions, even.”

Neville gave a sly smile. “Maybe when I get bored of being an Auror. Pansy does always say that I’m wasted there.”

Harry could only smile, and nod, and think how well Neville was managing, how much he had achieved and how much more he could still do. Like everybody else, he was doing things, becoming something else than the Fat Sidekick to the Boy Who Lived. The taste of wine in his mouth became bitter, burning with something Harry didn’t want to name, and he couldn’t even resent it because Neville deserved everything he had, and more.

Perhaps some more port would help.

: :

Two hours later Harry had decided to brave a trip upstairs, and to the bathrooms. The walls of the corridor were a delicate pale green, and Harry wondered if the Slytherins’ taste for decoration kept many house painters in business. Perhaps there was a person whose job it was to invent new shades of green.

The bathroom was white, somehow a space of safety and relief, and Harry leaned his forehead against the tiles and closed his eyes. After a week of anger and anxiety, he didn’t actually want to see Draco. There was usually a thrill of anticipation, something to look forward to even if the possibility of anything happening had been slim. Yet that idea, the knowledge that this was at least something he could do, an activity he could engage in and manage, had made everything else seem bearable.

Harry turned the tap on and let the cold water run over his hands, hitting the pulse point on his wrists. He should stop coming to these parties, they only served to remind him what a useless idiot he was. Maybe he should stop being a useless idiot.

He thought about grinning then, the resolution to change his life familiar from countless desperate nights. Being determined never changed anything, not as long as he couldn’t figure out what to do. Not as long as there was nothing he wanted to do. And repeating that certainly didn’t help.

Harry lifted his head and looked in the mirror. There were no lines on his face but his skin looked dead and white, unblemished by battle scars or any other sign of life. It used to be tanned, coloured by the wind and Quidditch. People used to say he had his mother’s eyes, the brilliance of Lily Evans come to life in him, but they didn’t say that anymore, and it wasn’t only because there were few people alive who remembered her. He was blurry and colourless now.

He opened the door and started to walk back downstairs, trying not to look at the vivid green of the walls. There was something ironic in being reminded of one’s failure as a human being by the colour of the walls and Harry almost smiled. At least he could still appreciate the ridiculousness of his position.

“Fucking hell, Justin, how could you forget something like that? This is a party, you imbecile, you can’t come here and expect to get laid without bringing the appropriate protection. I realise that Blaise is known as a generous host, but it’s not his job to provide you with lube and condoms. Fucking twat. And no, butter isn’t the same, and I sure as hell won’t be going to the kitchen and asking to borrow some.”

A door at the end of the hallway had opened to reveal Draco and Justin Finch-Fletchley, half-dressed and mostly drunk. Draco was speaking without any effort to be quiet, annoyance making his enunciation all the more clear and crushing. He was shirtless, his tie slackened and hanging over his bare chest, his trousers opened and threatening to fall off the curve of his hipbone. Harry swallowed.

“Potter.”

There was a wealth of consideration in that word, a certain curiosity mixed with slight amusement. Harry really didn’t want to know what it meant.

But now Draco was walking towards him, his feet bare and white on the soft carpet, a dangerous swagger in his step. Justin followed him, equally shirtless and trying to pull his trousers up. Harry decided he didn’t want to look at Justin.

“Well now, Potter. Fancy seeing you here. Come to sample Blaise’s hospitality?”

“Obviously. Did you think I would come uninvited?”

Draco’s smile showed his teeth. Harry raised his eyebrows.

“But what good fortune to bump into you here. You see, Justin here has forgotten to bring suitable preparations. And since I know for a fact that good Gryffindors never leave the house without condoms…perhaps you might be persuaded to share? If we agreed to…share as well?”

Draco had taken a tiny step forward as he spoke, jutting one hip so that it was bare inches away from Harry’s right hand. The drawl of his voice was calculated to tempt, but there was no amusement in it. Harry let out a long careful breath.

“You’re inviting me to a threesome?”

Draco shrugged, pale skin moving elegantly over sharp bones.

“You did imply that you wanted to get your hands on some willing flesh. Here’s Justin, very eager and pliable. You could fuck him.”

“And what about you?”

Draco tilted his head, smiled a cold smirk.

“I could fuck you.”

Harry looked down, allowed his mouth to curve and licked his lips. He let his eyes rise slowly, following the curves of bone and flesh, noting the red bites over Draco’s chest and stomach. He lifted his hand, taking hold of the tie but careful not to touch Draco’s skin. Pulled him forward until he could feel Draco’s breath on his lips. Raised his other hand to tangle in Draco’s hair, keeping him in place. Whispered against his mouth.

“No.”

Harry slid his mouth against Draco’s once, twice, until the other man’s lips opened and his eyes fluttered shut. Draco’s lips were cool and soft and they trembled as Harry licked them, coaxing little moans from him, making him curl his hands into Harry’s shirt and pull him closer. Harry kept stroking his thumb against Draco’s nape and unsettling the fine hairs at the back of his head. He tugged at Draco’s lower lip and sucked it into his mouth, biting it with delicate teeth. Then he let go.

“No. But thanks for the offer.”

Harry licked Draco’s lips with the last word, then pulled back and let the tie fall from his hand. His blood was humming in his ears but his feet were steady as he turned around and walked down the stairs.

: :

“Hi Harry, how’ve you been? Haven’t seen you in ages.”

Luna Lovegood was standing in the cloakroom, still holding on to the wine glass that she had just spilled over Harry’s coat, unapologetic and disgustingly happy.

“I’m good, how are you? How’s Ginny?”

“We’re great, just come back from France. Had a lovely time.”

“You were visiting Bill and Fleur? How are they?”

“They’re fine. Very busy with work, of course. I told Fleur to watch out for bogrelabeurs, they’re very common in the south of France this time of the year. And specially drawn to people who work hard.”

Harry had never stopped wondering how Fleur Delacour, snooty and condescending to almost everybody else, had become such great friends with Luna. Perhaps it had something to do with having Molly Weasley as a mother-in-law. And the way Molly had decided that having a lesbian daughter-in-law was almost as bad as having a French woman who insisted on working instead of giving her grandchildren.

“It was really nice, actually. We even talked about moving there, getting new jobs, starting a new life.”

Harry had a vision of Luna wearing a beret and munching on a French baguette. It seemed quite fitting, somehow.

“Do you speak French, then?”

She shook her head and smiled.

“No, but you’d learn, wouldn’t you? And most people speak at a little English.”

“Yeah. I suppose.”

Luna grinned at him again, then leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

“Well, I’ve got to go find Ginny before she gets into a fight with Pansy again. It was good to see you, Harry. Take care of yourself.”

Harry charmed the wine off his coat and wondered what the weather would be like in Carcassonne this time of the year.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry discovered that he really liked buying travel guides. Shiny covers with incongruous sunlight in every picture, all lands and cities made interesting through historical anecdotes and curiosities. There was a certain satisfaction in trying to imagine such idealised countries and then imagining what the reality would be like, when it was raining, or when you couldn’t afford the authentic wild boar served in that hidden gem of a restaurant up in the mountains. Harry woke up three cappuccinos later to find that he had spent four hours in Waterstones without being bored. He bought twenty Rough Guides and Lonely Planets about various European capitals (he’d looked at one big one on Europe, but had decided those were for Americans who wanted to see the whole continent in a week) and walked home.

Of course, it wouldn’t be the same if he did start travelling. He wouldn’t have the luxury of retiring to his own comfortable flat at the end of the day (he could withdraw to the luxury apartment at his hotel instead, Harry reasoned) or call up Remus or Hermione if he got lonely. Well, he couldn’t call Remus now either because Remus refused to have a phone connected at his cottage, but he could call Hermione from Paris or Barcelona just as easily as from London.

Planning itineraries, thinking up ways to study cultures and languages and making the most of his travels, this suited him. There were problems to be solved (whether it was better to cross the Alps from France to Switzerland or from Switzerland to Italy, whether it was better to read _La Nouvelle Heloise_ or _Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage_ III in preparation), but there were also solutions to be had. He could consult maps. He could ask Blaise about suitable literature and be called a philistine. He could buy history books and study various regions. He could practice foreign languages. Best of all, he could write down how it all made sense, what the scenery looked like compared to how the guidebooks said it did, whether the people still thought about the things the history books claimed they did. And since there were real things to write about, facts and landscapes and foods and buildings, he wouldn’t be intimidated by the empty page or his own pitiful words. This could be something he could learn to do.

It would be an escape, of course, Harry knew that. But the thing was, he thought, the thing was that he hated his life. The only thing that wasn’t hateful and frustrating was stalking Draco and that was, well, he wasn’t doing that anymore. Remus was right; he was making himself ill. He had to find something to do. And travelling was something to do, it was a way to use his brain but also a way to relieve the constant pressure to do something. There would be movement, there would be activity. There would be sun and wind and foreign wines. And possibly sex with many handsome men and women.

But first, there was something else he could do.

: :

The bar was dark and quiet, and one time Harry would have noted carefully the change in Draco’s preferences and considered all the possible things it might mean. Now it was merely convenient.

Blaise’s smile deepened into a contented smirk as soon as he recognised Harry, then formed into an actual chuckle as Draco turned around with a scowl, saw Harry, and lost all expression.

“I want a rematch.”

Blaise raised his eyebrows and Draco rediscovered his scowl.

“What the fuck are you on about, Potter?”

“You know what I mean. Malfoy. I’m leaving England next week, and I won’t be back for a long time.”

It occurred to Harry that he didn’t sound particularly friendly, but he decided it didn’t matter. This wasn’t about friendliness, or even its appearance.

“And you are telling me this because…?”

“Because you should know, you pompous git. And maybe because the last thing I want to do here is to suck your cock.”

“That’s an interesting point, you know.”

“Shut up, Blaise.”

Zabini gave a shrug, suggesting indifference but implying really that Draco were being an idiot for not listening to him. Yet his voice was scrupulously polite when he spoke to Harry, and it made Draco roll his eyes.

“Where are you travelling to, Potter? Europe or somewhere wider afield?”

“Well, I’ll start with France, Bill Weasley lives there, cause you know, his wife is French and..”

Zabini did a complicated movement with his eyebrows that suggested he would also move to France if he were married to a Weasley. Harry wondered about those rumours with him and Ginny.

“…and I don’t know. I haven’t travelled much and. There’s lots I want to see.”

“Well, you should visit Italy, definitely, in fact you should pay a visit to my mother in Florence. She’d like you.”

Draco was giving Zabini strange looks and even Harry raised his eyebrows at that.

“Oh don’t worry, she wouldn’t marry you.” He said this with the implication that if Ms. Zabini decided to do that, there was little Harry could do to resist. “But she would enjoy your company, and she would show you around. And you’d like my cousin Beppo. A very charming young man.”

“Are you trying to prostitute him, Blaise? Your cousin Beppo is nothing but a…”

“Draco, for fuck’s sake, you only met him once, and you were in a snit the whole week just because…”

“Just because Potter is going abroad is no reason to send him into the pits of…”

“Actually, I was thinking of visiting Scandinavia.”

Zabini raised an eyebrow.

“Lots of blond people?”

“Well, I’ve never been and it seems like a nice place.”

“Do you know how cold it gets there? You could barely handle Scotland, Potter, you shouldn’t be going to anywhere above London!”

“Actually, Draco, it doesn’t get that cold, I have some cousins in Helsinki…”

“You have cousins everywhere, Blaise!”

“Yes, because my family isn’t as inbred as yours. And we are actually civilised, you know.”

“Well, I was planning to go there in the summer. When it’s not so cold.”

If Blaise was disappointed that Harry kept interrupting his show of elegant witticisms, he said nothing about it. Perhaps the pleasure of watching Draco squirm was greater than telling Harry how unsophisticated he was would be. Blaise kept looking at Draco, whether in consideration or in a deliberate attempt to annoy, Harry didn’t know. Both expressions looked mostly the same.

“That sounds rather delightful, Potter. I’m sure you’ll have a great time. And do remember to send us postcards.”

Harry nodded. He looked at Draco, who was staring at his wine glass, and swirling the pale liquid between his fingers.

“Where and when?”

Harry blinked, but his voice came out low and steady.

“Tomorrow night, my flat. Around eight, maybe?”

Draco nodded, still without looking at him. Blaise was grinning widely and staring at his friend.

As Harry walked out, he could hear Zabini saying something with undisguised mirth and Draco answering with a furious hiss. But he didn’t start to get nervous until he got home.

: :

Draco stared at the bed with concentrated irritation. Harry knew that the sheets were clean, that they had been changed into pure whites this morning especially, but he couldn’t help checking for any smudges of dirt that might have developed during the day. The bed looked clean.

But Draco didn’t look happy, he didn’t look like he was about to take his clothes off and let Harry pleasure him in any of the numerous ways Harry had planned. There was a tension in his shoulders, an enforced stillness and Harry could all but hear his teeth grinding. This wouldn’t do at all.

“Draco.”

The look he was given almost made Harry say _Malfoy_ instead, but wasn’t that the point, wasn’t that the thing he wanted to prove? That it was Draco he wanted, not the pointy-faced git from third year or that suave bastard Malfoy whose unspeakable activities were reported in the papers.

Harry from three weeks ago would have been bothered by this silence. He would have worried that Draco wasn’t interested, that Draco didn’t care. He would have found a way to break the tension, by teasing and joking, by offering himself up. He would not have dared to touch.

But now it was almost easy and Harry stepped closer, watched Draco frown, and stepped closer still until he was almost touching the other man. There was a deliberate calmness in Draco’s breathing but Harry could see his pulse beating fast, could almost feel it through his clothes. This was something he could do. He wiped his hands on his trousers.

There was only the slightest tremor in Harry’s fingers when he lifted them to Draco’s collar. Smoothed his thumbs down over Draco’s shirt, followed the curve of the collarbones, felt the skin shift beneath his fingertips. Licked his lips and waited for Draco to lick his, as Harry started to unbutton his shirt.

It wasn’t annoyance that had made Draco agree to this. Well, possibly Zabini would have taken the piss out of him if he hadn’t, but Harry had a feeling that would happen in any case. And he doubted that could make Draco do something he didn’t want to, no matter how many dirty grins and raised eyebrows Zabini could produce.

But this wasn’t a dare, as such. A rematch, maybe. Or payback.

The skin was warm beneath the thin material, and there was a hitch in Draco’s breath at the first accidental brush of a fingertip against bare flesh. He didn’t look at Draco’s face, wary about incidental eye contact. But the blurry line of jaw at the corner of his eye was strained and Harry gave in to the urge to nuzzle his face on to Draco’s neck, pressed a soft kiss behind his ear. For a moment they were close, warm skin and the soft white hair tickling Harry’s nose, his lips moving as Draco let out a long, exhausted breath.

Then Harry opened his mouth, felt a heated shiver of skin under his tongue, allowing for the slightest amount of suction before biting down.

“Fucking hell, Potter, are you a vampire or something? That’s not…”

Draco’s shriek was half of annoyance and half of lust, making Harry grin into his neck and lick the bitten skin. Then his teeth were moving on to Draco’s lips and he pushed him on the bed, pushed at him until he started pushing back, and greedily swallowed the invective coming through his lips. Draco’s hands were pulling at his arms, the thin fingers surprisingly strong and leaving bony marks on his skin. Harry pulled Draco’s lower lip into his mouth and sucked on it, soft and wet and full of Draco’s breath, and groaned. Felt a shudder against him.

There were small noises coming out of Draco’s mouth, half-bitten little moans of need and Harry had to press his face into Draco’s neck to keep from losing control. But it wasn’t enough to make Draco enjoy this, to enjoy being touched and licked and sucked. He had to remember his purpose, and not give in to the urge to start worshipping every delicious inch of the man before him.

Draco’s eyes were closed but he was moving, shivering and biting his lips as Harry slithered down his body and settled between Draco’s thighs. Their legs were getting entangled, sliding on the bed and looking for leverage, looking for friction. Harry rocked his hips and Draco let his head fall back, exposing a pale white throat, begging to be touched.

Well, perhaps a little worshipping would be okay. As long as he didn’t admit to it.

He trailed a hand up Draco’s chest, tracing the heartbeat under his fingers until he could feel the stubble against his palm, cradling Draco’s face and keeping him in place. A trace of a thumb along the Adam’s apple, and then sharp teeth, sliding along the collarbone, biting into the vulnerable flesh. Salty and sweet and moaning under him.

A few harsh breaths, an almost desperate groan, and then:

“Didn’t you say you were going to suck my cock?”

Harry licked the piece of skin between his teeth before answering.

“I’m going to. Just need to, er, suck at a few other things first.”

The smirk was inevitable, but Harry didn’t mind. He merely raised an eyebrow, causing Draco to scoff, then lifted one of Draco’s hands and pressed it against the bed next to his head. The blue veins of his wrist were visible, the tendons moving frantically beneath the skin as Draco’s fingers twitched under Harry’s. There was a long, jagged scar and Harry followed it with his lips, tracing the cut with his tongue until he reached the pulse point and heard Draco cry out. Then he began to suck.

“You really are a vampire, aren’t you? Bloody hell, Potter.”

Harsh breaths and another twitch of the fingers. Harry grazed Draco’s palm with his teeth.

“Quit your whining, Malfoy.”

“Look, I came here for a blowjob.”

“Are you just going to lie there and complain?”

There was a moment of stillness, before Draco growled and pinned Harry to the bed.

“Fucking Potter, always so bloody…”

Harry’s t-shirt was lifted and scrunched in one fist and Draco’s mouth was at his sternum, trying to suck his heart out through the skin. Harry arched his hips off the bed and another hand came to work on his zip.

“Bloody tight these things. Why do you wear such ridiculous clothes? Stupid bloody Potter.”

“They’re jeans, Malfoy. Quite fashionable in the Muggle world.”

“I know what jeans are, Potter, and these haven’t been fashionable in twenty years.”

“Don’t you know the eighties are coming back?”

“The eighties were a stupid idea in the first place, no need to repeat the mistake.”

“If you say so.”

Draco lifted his head at that and Harry grinned at him. A familiar smirk formed briefly on Draco’s lips before started moving his mouth downwards.

“Besides, you’re only wearing them to show your arse.”

“You’ve been staring at my arse, Malfoy?”

“Hardly.”

Then there were sharp teeth on his hipbone and Harry clutched at the sheets. And groaned as his trousers were roughly pulled down, Draco’s nails biting into his thighs, leaving him shaking even after the last stroke of thumb over his anklebone.

“Right, Potter, how are we going to do this?”

Draco was kneeling at the foot of the bed, his shirt almost falling off his shoulders, his mouth red and bitten. Trying to clear his head, Harry sat up and brought his hands to Draco’s trousers.

“Let’s get these off you first, yeah? Then I can give you that blowjob.”

Harry was already moving his fingers, press and push of thumbs as button by button was opened. He didn’t look away from Draco’s face, didn’t move closer. There was a flush on Draco’s cheeks and a flutter of eyelashes every time a button was freed. Harry licked his lips and grinned at the jerk of hips beneath his hands.

“Lie down.”

Draco smirked and Harry couldn’t help smiling back.

“I hope you’re not going to tell me to think of England?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary, no.”

Harry waited until Draco had wiggled away from his trousers and settled down on the bed, his legs slightly spread.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t imagined this a million times, Draco naked and waiting before him, inches and inches of pale shuddering skin and his lips red from Harry’s teeth. And Draco was looking at him, his mouth half open but without a smile, his eyes suddenly serious and determined.

Harry swallowed and smiled. He grabbed hold of Draco’s ankle, felt it jerk once, then go still. There was a pulsing vein beneath his hand and he stroked it, pressing into it with his thumb, slowly. Heard Draco’s breath hitch.

He started moving upwards, sliding his hands along Draco’s legs, then paused to press a kiss on the skin behind the knees. He wondered if it had been like this last time when Draco had done this to him, whether he had looked, whether he had paid attention to the texture, noticed the scars and the rough patches of skin, the smooth hair. Narrow pale thighs, the long muscles twitching as Harry touched them, an involuntary shiver as he scraped a nail against a scar.

And then he bent down, licked the tip of Draco’s leaking cock, and heard a muffled groan.

It didn’t taste different from other pricks he’d sucked, not great but not too unpleasant either, but strong and salty and male. And Harry was paying attention to every moan and twitch, teaching himself the effects of licking and sucking, of swirling his tongue in the slit, of swallowing the whole, of tracing the underside with his lips.

When he stopped, the sheets were violently creased from where Draco had been clutching them and they were both panting loudly. Harry sat back on his knees and reached out for a packet of lube.

“I assume you’ve given a blowjob before, but let me remind you that that really isn’t a good time to stop.”

“Just a minute.”

“Potter, what are you doing?”

Harry ripped the packet open and poured the lube on his hands, then rubbed them together to warm it up. Draco had lifted himself on his elbows and was looking at him with a debauched scowl. Harry grinned at him and started to rub his hands over his own cock, closing his eyes briefly at the first contact, then grinning again when he saw Draco lie down.

“You’ll see.”

Going down on his hands and knees, Harry started moving closer, avoided touching the other man until he was stretched over him.

“You’re going to fuck me, Potter?”

Harry licked his lips and lowered his body until they were perfectly aligned, chest to chest and cock against straining cock. He let out a long breath and felt Draco twitch.

“No.”

There was a flicker of something on Draco’s face, confusion or dread, but when Harry began to move he closed his eyes and turned away. A kiss against his ear and a long shuddering slide against his cock, and Draco was scrunching his eyes tight and biting his lip. Harry leaned closer to lick his mouth.

“You’re hiding.”

And so when Harry took both of their cocks in his hand and started stroking, Draco was looking at him, half startled and half in accusation, his mouth open and needy. And when Draco began to jerk into his hand Harry couldn’t resist kissing him and swallowing the moan, couldn’t keep from coming himself at that sight.

: :

Cleaning was different when you knew you wouldn’t be making a mess the next day. Harry washed the floor one last time and charmed the wooden floorboards dry. He liked the pine-scent of the washing liquid, it seemed appropriate somehow. Clean and foresty.

The sheets were put in the washer. All his other clothes and linen had already been washed, some packed in preparation for the journey. Only mild dusting left to do.

Harry had considered going out on his last night, but had decided against it in the end. Not only because his flight to Paris was at eight; there was a good chance his feet might take him to Draco and he didn’t want other memories now. He wanted to keep the image fresh in his mind, tousled hair and a mouth still slack from sleep, a warm body burrowed against him.

He’d been tempted to point out that he wasn’t kicking Draco out of bed immediately afterwards. But that would have made it more likely that Draco would leave, and so he hadn’t, and Draco didn’t. There had been no cuddling, precisely, but if arms had wrapped themselves over waists during the night, they had said nothing about it. And in the morning, waking up with a hard on against his arse, it had made sense to turn around and hold the other body close, to grind against it until they were both breathless and Harry’s mouth was full of white blond hair.

He had given up trying to promise himself that he wouldn’t think about Draco during his travels. But there would be other things to think about too, and Harry was pretty sure that he would be all right.

: :

Fleur Delacour’s house was small, two stories in a narrow cobbled street in Carcassonne. But there were red and gold curtains hanging from the windows and Harry laughed for the first time since leaving England.

Fleur opened the door before he had a chance to knock and her smile was genuine. Harry swallowed, then realised her hair was the wrong shade of blonde.

“Welcome! Come inside, Harry. Bill, il est là!”

Harry wiped his dusty shoes on the welcoming mat and stepped into the house. It was dark inside, the windows small and deep, probably to keep the heat away: it was only April and Harry was sweating from his walk through town.

“How was your journey?”

Harry took his jacket off and accepted a glass of white wine.

“Thank you. Long and hot. The train was packed with children. I’m sure they’re not that rude in England. Well, not at Hogwarts, at least.”

Fleur nodded, then rolled her eyes. Perhaps English children had not appeared that well behaved to her. Harry took a sip of his drink, the wine lovely and cold and not overtly sweet. He figured that this was the best part of travelling; arriving to a new place and tasting their wine for the first time.

“Hello, young Harry! How was the journey?”

Harry suffered through the obligatory hair tousling from Bill, which he had decided a long time ago was an attempt for Bill to remain young even though Harry got older. He took another sip of his wine and repeated his account of the train.

“Great. How long are you staying for? You’ll have time to have a look at the town, at least, and see some of the countryside.”

“Without talking about bogrelabeurs all the time.”

Fleur rolled her eyes again, and Bill grinned.

“But you like Luna, really, don’t you?”

His voice was low and teasing and private. Fleur gave him a sweet smile and a flash of eyes that made Harry feel very much like an intruder, or perhaps a voyeur.

“At least she’s not a Weasley.”

Bill smiled and Harry thought that he really wasn’t that old.

“I think I’ll have the time to look around. Don’t really have a schedule.”

Two faces smiled at him and raised their glasses. Harry drank his and realised that he hadn’t thought of Draco once so far.

: :

The coffee was bitter and Harry half considered complaining. But the waiters would only call him a silly foreigner and unable to appreciate proper espresso, and so he drank it anyway. He did, however, enjoy writing “vile coffee, unclean tables and unattractively snotty waiters” on his notebook.

The sun had only been out for an hour, and so Harry was understandably annoyed when somebody stopped in front of him and blocked the light. He had a meeting with Beppo Zabini at five and he wanted to enjoy the sun and the café, some of the things one is supposed to do in Italy, before that. Apparently Beppo would help him enjoy the other things.

“Hello, Potter. I see you are following the tourist route. Didn’t anybody tell you where to find the good cafes are in Florence?”

He really shouldn’t flush at the sound of that voice. Maybe he could blame the sun.

“Malfoy? What are you doing here?”

Draco slid down on the chair opposite him without inspecting the seat for pigeon droppings. Harry felt this was very daring. But then, Draco had never been a coward.

But Draco was smiling and there was no strain on his mouth. Harry couldn’t help smiling back, no matter how ridiculous it made him look.

“I believe it’s my turn to stalk you now. So, any chance of getting into your pants tonight, Potter?”


End file.
